In the woods under a smiling moon

The squirrels are madly chasing each other around the ficus tree in the back and making quite a ruckus this morning.
I wish I had a real owl in my tree but the only ones around here are made from fabric.

I took the extra time to resize these photos instead of using Flickr to host them- does it make a difference on your monitor? What do you think? I am full of contentment at having finished something else and crossing it off my list. I see time when I look at my work.

Stitches wandering without a conscious effort to plan a design and then they become texture and that creates another element.

Like drawings on a buried treasure map the dotted lines travel around the patchwork until x marks the spot.

Buttons become balls bounced across the yard from child to child, the wind softly blows; leaves dance.
The colors represent water and forest. Perhaps this owl lives in the 100 acre wood with Christopher Robin?

He is kind and wise and so patient with that silly old bear and his foolishness.
The story tells itself as I stitch; quietly pushing needle through the layers of cloth.
Rust colored thread represents the nails in the owl house my Grandfather built before I was born.

Lichen growing in random patches to create a new design on the weathered gray wood. The rust bleeds down the wood like wine spilled on linen.

I stand on tip toes, searching the great oak tree for movement. Is that him? I whisper to myself.

Into the box and gone away to live in Oregon where he will be right at home.
All I have left are the digital images and the memory of thread through my fingers.
I hope she can hear the story it's telling through fabric, color and stitch.
The moon smiles and says yes, I'll make sure to tell her.
My hands reach out for a different cloth, with new thread on my needle and begin the dance again.